Harbor hidden in the middle of

Harbor hidden in the middle of
a turbid current: sperm-tails flailing
radiant around a naked solus, ovum
beckoning its spent rays in. Each
oval head (a match, a latent smoke of info)
rubs its cheek against the stony fruit…

How does a life expand to meet capacity?
I splitting into Ys, diffuse, confused,
does one become, at last, a parody of self,
diminished twig clung stubborn to the branch’s
end? or spread alive at once across its years, a
net of nerve to seize the wind in alleluia?

Impelled to fill one pattern once we start, the others,
never touched, lie fallow with imaginary crops—

Two trees grew separate in a garden once, but
how to tell the difference now? What life can we conceive
except the one we know, crooked with leaving?

Myopia, my opus: a cross-eyed squint
in radiating focus, half-divining vision.
Deus absconditus—draw in the periphery, grant me
direct sight, or at least a wending
life in which the distances are knit.
Even this flimsy string of time should be enough.

One matchhead breaks the skin and then, slow
flame, the vast potentials end, begin.